


Indisposed

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Culture shock is hard. It's hard and nobody understands.</p><p>"Everything echoes off of cold steel and too-white tile, and for a moment the sound of his own harsh breathing, the acrid air he chokes out, are too loud, claustrophobic as they build up in the air around him, thick and oppressive until the awkward shuffle of John’s feet outside the door breaks the spell."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indisposed

At four in the morning, Karkat claws his way out of John Egbert’s bed and stumbles out of his bedroom, makes a sharp turn to the right and damn near flings himself into the clean, bright human bathroom. There is no pause to check his reflection, see how pale he’s gone, no inspecting the toothbrushes and funny shaped little soaps lined up alongside the sink.

He kicks the door shut, heads straight for the load gaper, toilet, whatever, useless blue blood language should just make him sicker at this point, but when he actually drops to his knees in front of the damn thing he finds himself thinking fondly of those creepy faux-arguments with Equius over appropriate terminology. He dwells on that thought, lets the thought of something familiar, even if familiarly irritating, fill his mind. It calms him, staves off the intense nausea for a moment while he grips the sides of the toilet, takes deep breaths, in, out, trying not to puke, not to barf, not to hurl and god now he wishes he didn’t know so many words for vomit.

After calming down and building himself back up to the point of being violently sick, the next wave of nausea feels worse than the rest. He retches, tips forward till his chin bumps the cool surface of the toilet seat, groans miserably as the feeling tapers off, relief eluding him. He curses his own body, quietly, just under his breath, fuck fuck fuck I hate this, fuck this sucks, fuck this whole goddamn planet I just wanna-

Finally, with a heave forward, he vomits up everything Egbert has fed him throughout the day.

Which is seriously unfair because even if the idea of breakfast for dinner was foreign and not funny and completely confusing to him, the waffles had been pretty good and the bacon was pretty much the most delicious thing he’d ever put in his mouth.

Meat products are one of those human things that Karkat has already gotten used to.

Things he still hasn’t gotten used to are the sun (weaker than Alternia’s but still way too bright,) the air (just slightly different but good god does it choke him on some days,) the sleep schedule, the passage of time, the plants and animals and food and furniture and everything. He is basically getting used to everything, still, and John is trying really hard, really really hard, to help him adjust but it’s not enough. Even visiting members of his own species and commiserating over just how awful and frightening and unfamiliar this place is doesn’t make it much easier.

Culture shock is hard.

It’s hard and nobody understands.

Karkat’s stomach tips and he retches again, coughing up bile and wincing at the sound of it.

Everything echoes off of cold steel and too-white tile, and for a moment the sound of his own harsh breathing, the acrid air he chokes out, are too loud, claustrophobic as they build up in the air around him, thick and oppressive until the awkward shuffle of John’s feet outside the door breaks the spell.

“Um….Karkat?” He knocks twice, shuffles again, “You okay?”

He sounds muffled, groggy, probably half asleep. Karkat feels simultaneously guilty for waking him and resentful that his soft, pink body is already so used to life here, that the atmosphere itself doesn’t make him sick.

“….m’fine,” He calls out to him weakly. He is. Will be. He just has to wait a while before he gets up. His legs are all shaky, the muscles in his abdomen aching, and he’s got that weird phantom limb thing going on where his grub legs used to be and it’ll drive him insane if the feeling lingers too long.

He pushes his hair up out of his face, sees the sweat on his palm, lightly pink, and swallows back the very last of his nausea.

The room is quiet now, almost peaceful, his body still, and he ruins it by reaching up to flush the toilet.

Eventually he gets a hold of himself, stands up and rinses his mouth out at the sink, frowns at the taste of the water here, splashes his face and dries it off on the towel John has deemed his and his alone.

He feels kind of stupidly special for having his own towel in Egbert’s human hive house thing.

He feels a little more special when he opens the bathroom door and finds John waiting outside for him, worry clear on his face.

“Oh man, Karkat, I’m sorry! Did I accidentally poison you or trigger an allergy or something?”

He shakes his head, flips off the light and they carefully pick their way back to Egbert’s room in the dark.

“It’s not your fault. It’s just my fucked up body rebelling against every sensible action as usual.”

Even in the dark he can see John’s frown, all unsure, like maybe this is the cinnamon fiasco all over again, when he tricked Karkat into trying the spoonful of cinnamon trick as a prank, only to discover that he was kind of sort of allergic and, well, there had been a lot of medication and freaking out involved. Not a good night for either of them.

But Karkat’s throat isn’t swelling shut, his eyes aren’t watering. He isn’t getting accidentally high off of John’s household cleaning products or choking on oatmeal because he didn’t understand the texture of it at first or any of these other little things that have just snuck up on him and made it painfully obvious that he doesn’t have what it takes to be new to a planet. A planet of his own creation, for christ’s sake.

This is just run of the mill sickness. Home sickness maybe. New home sickness.

“I’ll be fine,” He insists gruffly, and after a little hesitation John crawls back into bed, beckons for Karkat to join him, snuggles up against him in something that Karkat is still struggling to understand.

Not a homosexual so not a romance. Just a friendship, a super close one apparently. One where they share a bed and soothe each other after nightmare rememberings of their shared experience in Sburb. One where they cuddle up to watch movies and sometimes, when he’s off guard, John gives this little sigh like he’s found the most comfortable spot in the universe and it’s right against Karkat’s neck.

It’s perfect and awful and painful and Karkat swallows it all down because he’s out of his element and he doesn’t understand. Things are different here.

As John drifts back to sleep against him Karkat lies awake and listens to the dulled noises of cars, suburban humans heading out for early morning commutes.

No matter how hard he tries he can’t remember the sounds his lusus used to make when he’d scurry around the hive early in the evening.

But when he gives up trying, the sound of John’s breathing is there to fill the void, lull him to sleep in place of a recuperacoon full of slime.

His stomach twists painfully and he ignores it, closes his eyes, forces himself to follow John’s sleep pattern.

Share his space.


End file.
